Tracing-Paperwhite Narcissus

I am confident that all of my acquaintances would agree: I am less concerned than most with the opinions of the hoi polloi. This is especially evident when it comes to my increasingly shameless antics. For instance, celebrating Guy Fawkes' Day by dragging an effigy around town, asking people, "Penny for the old Guy?" and allowing them to kick the Catholic. In fact, my brother and I are already planning a series of short films chronicling my ambush-theatrical antics as an amputee. Current ideas for prosthetic props include: a mop, with which to clean the floors at a supermarket, warning passersby to watch their step; a unicycle, with which to offer pedestrians rides; and a foam rubber leg, which bears no weight, but upon which I try to walk anyway. Clearly, the comedic possibilities are endless.

You would think, dear reader, that one who exhibits such a committment to shamelessness--and I actually do these things; ask around--would also be immune to the body/fashion nazis that run our culture. But I secretly care. My sister chastised me for it today, after I admitted to posting a pic on www.Hotornot.com. While the post was made largely in jest, I really was crushed when my rating sunk and exalted when it rose. It is no revelation to me that I am narcissistic. I sometimes, in fact, read back over sections of this blog and think to myself, "If somebody else wrote this, I would love them--no questions asked." This is narcissism in the very truest sense: being obsessed with one's own image, as though transfixed by a reflection. The question, therefore, is not whether I am narcissistic, but whether to be ashamed of it and slowly work it out of my character, or not.

On the side of modesty, one finds the argument that we are all alike in the image of the divine. I'm not certain I buy it, though. To do justice to the divine we must, to be sure, look for his presence everywhere--even in the ignorant bucolic. At the same time, however, we must also exult in ourselves as the instrument and aspect of God. Modesty, therefore, is a two-edged sword: it tends to set our accomplishments in perspective, true, but it also prevents us from considering ourselves whole and holy in our path. I choose, therefore, what most people call self-hatred but I call realism. I choose to embrace my faults as part of my path and, therefore, wholly necessary. I am not shy about decrying praise of my accomplishments, but I don't do so out of deprecation. To refuse unearned praise is not hatred but love. I love my being, faults and all, and to accept innaccurate laudation is to honor falsehood rather than myself.

By the same token, it is not unhealthily narcissistic to bask in my writing, my voice, or other gifts, so long as I am clear and vocal about my corresponding shortcomings: impetuousness, lack of focus and hedonism. And what harm does it do me if a jury of my peers currently gives me an 8.1 on www.hotornot.com?